Slip of the Tongue
by Rose022477
Summary: When John Watson is doped up on painkillers, he lets slip some information about a certain consulting detective


Sherlock paced up and down, his shoes clicking on the cold tile of the hospital floor. His brain would not stop whirring and clicking away, running through scenarios of what could have happened.

"Sherlock," Greg Lestrade sighed from his chair. "You should come sit down. Your incessant pacing is not going to help him." Sherlock said nothing, but continued his pacing up and down the floor. Greg rubbed the skin around his eyes and sighed again. There would be no convincing him apparently.

"The surgery is just a precaution Sherlock. I know you're worried, but he's not in any danger. A knife to the knee is not the worst that could have happened to him. You were both very lucky."

"Do you ever stop talking, Gabe?" Sherlock growled. "I know John will be fine. His wound was clearly not fatal."

"Well you say you know that, but you've been pacing since he went into surgery, which was..." Greg glanced at his watch, "2 hours ago. You need to sit, have a cup of tea, and calm down." Sherlock snorted. Calm, be calm, they always told him to calm down, he didn't need to be calm! He turned to make an angry remark at Greg, when he spotted John's doctor coming towards him. The doctor had tiny flecks of blood on his scrubs, John's blood, John's blood that had stained the ground only a few hours before… Sherlock shook his head angrily. No. That line of thought was no good to think about. John was fine. The doctor was just coming to tell him how the surgery went, and try to get him to go home. The doctor finally reached him, and Sherlock interrupted before he could speak.

"When can I see him?" Sherlock snapped. The doctor stared at Sherlock a bit blankly, before speaking,

"I recommended that the patient have no visitors for the next few hours while he recovers, but against my better judgment, I have been told that one Sherlock Holmes is allowed in the room." Sherlock smiled slightly, the perks of having an influential brother.

"What room?" He barked impatiently as the doctor stared at him, a look of pure idiocy on his face.

"304, but I recommend…" Sherlock didn't listen to the rest. He was off with a swish of his coat and a smirk. Room 304 was near the left wing of the hospital, a private room that was no doubt very expensive. Mycroft would have spared no expense. Despite his cold exterior, he seemed to have a soft spot for John Watson, almost everyone did. Sherlock finally reached room 304; it had been at the end of the wing. Sherlock hesitated and the bland, white, curtain that separated the room from the hall, what if John was angry? It had been Sherlock's fault that John had been stabbed; it was always his fault. But no, John wouldn't be angry… Sherlock pushed aside the curtain, and stepped into the room. John was lying in a hospital bed on the right side of the room. He was asleep; his head turned towards the door, but noticeably slack. His features were softer in sleep, less controlled. The room was big; it had its own bathroom in the corner, complete with a shower. Sherlock smiled slightly; no doubt John would make a fuss when he woke up. John's eyelids fluttered, and Sherlock stepped towards him quickly. He pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat, touching John's arm softly.

"John…?" John murmured someone unintelligible, and shifted slightly. His face started to change from the calm mask of sleep, into the brightness of wakefulness. He murmured something again, and his eyes opened. His eyes were slightly blank, dulled by the drugs in his system. John looked at Sherlock and smiled, but his eyes were still blank, he didn't recognize him.

"John?" Sherlock inquired softly, touching his hand again.

"Hello," John said brightly, his words slurred slightly as he smiled benignly at Sherlock. "I feel a bit funny… My head… S'Fuzzy." John giggled. It was his high-pitched giggle, the giggle that Sherlock only heard when John was high on adrenaline after a case, when they had those moments of breathless pleasure, something different always under the surface.

"I need to tell you something." John said, a sudden air of certainty around him. "I have this friend see," John slurred happily, his voice rising and falling naturally, "He's brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. And he knows. He knows how brilliant he is, so he can be kind of a dick. Actually he's a dick all of the time, but see, he's also gorgeous." John smirked suddenly,

"I especially like his butt."

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden as he stared at John. John had to be talking about him, there was no one else John knew who was 'absolutely brilliant', but John wasn't attracted to him. John wasn't gay, he made that VERY clear every time someone tried to insinuate that they were a couple. Sherlock had deduced early on that John was at least partially bisexual. He had noticed the way John stared just a bit too long at a man's chest or buttocks, but John never looked at Sherlock that way. His admirations of Sherlock were purely intellectual. John admired him for his brain not his looks, right? Well apparently not. This new information swirled tentatively around Sherlock's brain. John was attracted to him. But John didn't want to be in a relationship with Sherlock. He had made that clear. John smiled again slightly, staring dreamily into the distance.

"You know, I came on to him once. The first day we met. I don't think I knew at the time. But I already wanted him" John slurred. "He turned me down" John frowned at his hands angrily, as if he was truly hurt by this. "Stupid of me to ask, I barely knew him. And now he's my best friend. Brilliant, and married to his work. His work of all things." John grunted. "Stupid git." John grumbled. His eyelids had started to droop again, he was becoming less and less conscious. "G'night mum" John mumbled as his face slackened into sleep. Sherlock continued to stare at John, his mouth slightly agape. Had John just… Admitted his love for Sherlock? He had certainly admitted his attraction. But that didn't necessarily lead to love… Sherlock had always assumed that John didn't want a relationship with him. He hadn't asked since the fateful day at Angelo's. Sherlock didn't know how long he sat there in the chair next to John's bed, contemplating John's words, but he was roused out of his reverie by a polite cough from the doorway.

"Sherlock." Mycroft droned. "How long have you been here?" Sherlock turned his back on Mycroft and stared at John more intently, trying to ignore his brother's presence.

"You really should eat something, and get some rest. I'm sure Doctor Watson will still be here when you get back." Mycroft's voice sounded almost pitying.

"I'm not leaving, Mycroft. So you might as well take your 'advice' and get out. Don't you have some cake to hoard?" Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh, and then his footsteps receded; he was actually leaving. Sherlock almost turned around to watch him go in surprise, but he refrained, keeping his eyes fixed on John's peaceful face. He would stay until John was able to leave, and no one could convince him otherwise.

Sherlock awoke with a jolt, his body recoiling in a defensive position before he realized where he was. He was in the hospital; there was no danger here. He relaxed slightly, opened his eyes and turned his head towards John, only to see that John was already watching him.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? How long were you awake? Why didn't you wake me?" John smiled at him, his eyes were bright, the effects of the drugs must have worn out when he was sleeping.

"Slow down, Sherlock" John laughed, his voice bright. "I haven't been awake long, but you needed the sleep so I didn't wake you. How long have you been here?" Sherlock could hear the concern in John's voice, amplified by the small room.

"They tried to make me leave. I haven't left since you came out of surgery."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You need to go home! I wasn't even awake, you didn't need to stay. You need to sleep in your own bed and eat something." John sounded worried, worried about Sherlock when he had just been stabbed, typical.

"I'm not leaving until you can leave, John. I don't need food. And I just had sleep. I want to stay here." Sherlock's voice cracked and the end, and he scolded himself; there was no need for John to be even more worried about him. John sighed.

"You really shouldn't stay, Sherlock, but I suppose there's no convincing you. If you're going to stay though, you have to get something to eat, even if it's from a vending machine." John's voice was firm, there was no room for argument, but Sherlock decided to try anyway.

"I don't need…"

"No, Sherlock. You do need food. Doctor's orders. Please, Sherlock. I'll be fine if you leave me for 5 minutes." John's voice had taken on a note of pleading towards the end, and Sherlock sighed, conceding the point.

"Fine, but don't move when I'm gone." Sherlock stood quickly trotting away with a swish of his coat to find a vending machine.

When Sherlock returned to the room, a bag of crisps clutched in his hand, he found John exactly where he had left him, in his hospital bed. John's eyes lit up when Sherlock walked in, an easy smile on his face. He looked slightly disappointed when Sherlock held up the bag of crisps.

"You should really..."

"It was all they had, John, just leave it be. I promise I'll eat it just don't make me leave." John snapped his mouth shut and stared. "

Are you alright, Sherlock? You seem… Off. " Sherlock stared at the ground near his feet, a million questions swirling through his brain.

"John… Do you remember waking up when I was here before? You were pretty slow due to the drugs. But you said some things to me…" John frowned, his forehead furrowing as he tried to remember.

"I had a dream that I was talking to my mum. Did I actually speak out loud?" Sherlock nodded risking a glance at John's face. He was blushing furiously, his ears had turned a bright vermillion red.

"Shit, Sherlock I didn't mean to offend you, I didn't mean- I mean obviously I meant it but" John stuttered his face reddening even further "I don't want this to come between us." He finished lamely, his eyes downcast. Sherlock stared a strange feeling rising in his chest.

"John, I'm not offended by what you said. I needed to hear it."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously, his eyes bright with unanswered questions. He seemed about to speak, to voice his insecurities, but Sherlock would not have it, and before John could utter a word, he surged forward pressing his lips tentatively against John. It was awkward, his nose bumped into John's and their teeth clacked together as they fumbled with each other. Suddenly the tone changed, John took control, tilting Sherlock's head just slightly to the left, and sparks flew. Sherlock's brain short-circuited, everything shut off, for a few wondrous moments there was blissful silence, and all Sherlock could feel was John's lips on his. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, with twin grins on their faces. John took a deep breath and spoke his voice deeper than usual with suppressed arousal.

"That was… Brilliant. Wish you had done that sooner." Sherlock smirked slightly, but his smile fell a moment later,

"I never knew how you felt. I was afraid you didn't want me." John stared at him, his eyes searching Sherlock's face.

"I've always wanted you, Sherlock. I have since that first day at Angelo's. But you were the one who told me you were 'married to your work' I didn't think _you_ would ever want _me."_

"John…" Sherlock hesitated. "There's something I should say, I've meant to say always and I never have. I might as well say it now." He stopped the words he wanted to say sticking in his throat.

"I love you too, you git." John murmured softly. Then he smirked and pulled Sherlock down for another searing kiss, and as their lips brushed against each other's Sherlock knew that he would not trade this for the world.


End file.
